The Rook: A Novel

by O'Malley, Daniel

  “Nonetheless, his abilities have been presented as effective and discrete obliteration options since he was six,” said Cyrus.

  “But young Harp’s powers will leave nothing but a crater. Covering that up would be rather difficult,” Myfanwy said. Who was she kidding? Covering this up was going to be a nightmare regardless.

  Cyrus’s eyes bored into her. “Rook Thomas, I think that this situation may warrant extraordinary measures.”

  “Very well then. We will summon Harp.”

  “I think it’s wise,” said Cyrus. “And look, there’s an even chance that Callahan will survive.” Myfanwy’s stomach clenched. It hadn’t occurred to her that using the little boy’s powers might kill him. From what she could recall, his file tended to emphasize the amount of real estate that could be disposed of without any troubling side effects such as radiation, pollution of nearby ley lines, or inconvenient paperwork to fill out. Had there been anything about its harming the boy? She couldn’t remember.

  “He might die?” she asked faintly. Cyrus looked at her soberly.

  “Rook Thomas, take into account all the information you shared with me. As a Rook of the Checquy, think of your responsibility to the people of the United Kingdom,” he said in a hushed, flat voice. “You do not have time to mull this over.”

  “Quite right,” said Myfanwy, calling the formulaic sentences to memory. Thomas’s instructions had insisted that she memorize them.

  “I, Myfanwy Alice Thomas, Rook of the Checquy, Hidden Sword of the Crown, First Raven of Scotland, Herald for Eire, and General of Britain’s Secret Army, do hereby invoke the presence of Harper Callahan, ward of the Estate, to serve the unknowing populace of the United Kingdom with all his strength and capabilities, that our islands might endure.”

  It was a ridiculous, archaic statement, but it made everything nice and legal and officially shifted responsibility for the entire operation onto her head. Only the Rooks, the Bishops, and the Lord and Lady of the Checquy could authorize the use on British soil of an agent classified as a Force of Physical Obliteration. Fortunately, there were only three individuals at that power level in the UK. In fact, one of them was maintained in a vault in the Shetland Islands. Utilizing them required that the Prime Minister, the Minister of Defense, the ruler of the country, and all members of the Checquy Court be informed. Even as Myfanwy finished speaking, she could hear the fingers of the crew dialing phones to communicate the information and call forth the student from the Estate.

  This has to be done, she reminded herself. And if that little boy gets killed, well, that will be one of many terrible things I’ve set in motion since opening safe-deposit box 1011-B.

  And if anyone demands to know why I unleashed a child who could possibly turn this entire town into a slick of molten rock, then I’ll be obliged to tell them that my powers indicated the cube was a Grafter weapon. Which it happens to be.

  “The cube is moving!” came Carmine’s excited voice.

  “Peripheral guards ready,” barked Cyrus. Little monitors lit up all over the room, and Myfanwy squinted in the sudden brightness. She stared at the pictures and realized that they were from all the little cameras that were slung under the guns of the Checquy troops around the building. “What’s happening inside, Jasmine?” Cyrus asked.

  Motha’s voice came through, surprised. “Those coils of muscle are flexing, and bones are being shifted around.”

  “How?” asked Watson.

  “I don’t know, but it’s not being done for reinforcement. I’m seeing holes open up in the cage, like shutters being drawn back.”

  “There’s a split in the epidermis!” exclaimed Carmine. “It opened for a second. It’s on the side facing the front of the building.”

  Where we are, thought Myfanwy grimly.

  “This doesn’t bode well, sir,” said Watson to Cyrus. “If something comes out, we’re right in the way.”

  “But we’re armored,” pointed out the little computer nerd Pawn.

  “And we have soldiers on our roof,” said Cyrus.

  “Some of the bones are being driven down through the floor,” reported Motha.

  “Why?” asked Watson, her brow furrowed.

  “Anchoring,” said one of the large bodyguards, and everyone looked at him.

  “Anchoring for wh—?” began Watson before the trailer was rocked by a sudden blow. “Fuck!” Those lucky enough to be sitting down were thrown back in their ergonomic chairs while those standing found themselves lying abruptly and painfully on the floor.

  “Status?” barked Cyrus as the trailer trembled again.

  “Several muscle tentacles just whipped out of the cube, went through the police station wall, and have latched onto the incident trailer!” came the horrified report from Pawn Motha.

  “It’s actually pulling you toward the building!” exclaimed Carmine, his panicked voice over the radio almost lost to static. Another massive jerk sent those who had hesitantly gotten up on their hands and knees tumbling back down onto their supine companions.

  “Yes, thanks, we can feel it,” snapped Myfanwy. “Let’s get the hell out of here! Everyone out! Checquy troops, open fire on those tentacles! Where’s Steele with his chain saws? Get him on them!”

  They were all staring at her. “Now!” she shouted, and she galvanized them with a mental prod to their nervous systems. It was crude and short, but it got them moving.

  The large bodyguards acted in marvelous coordination. One picked Myfanwy up like a doll and slung her over his shoulder. Various parts of her that had been examined by doctors earlier in the day protested loudly.

  She thought briefly about struggling but decided that acting like a recalcitrant five-year-old would do her no good. The structure juddered over a curb, and they were all flung against a wall. The guard who was carrying her swiveled, protecting her with his body. The other bodyguard stomped along in front of them, shoving the hesitant techno-geeks out of the way. Ingrid and Li’l Pawn Alan held on to the harness of Myfanwy’s bearer and were dragged along in his wake. Myfanwy, dangling as she was, managed to make eye contact with Ingrid, who was looking disheveled for the first time ever. They exchanged grim looks, and then Myfanwy, still gasping for breath, craned her neck up to see that the staff of the command center were, with difficulty, following them. Watson was there, shouting, but Myfanwy couldn’t quite hear her over the racket of the trailer squealing across the concrete.

  “What?” she shrieked at the Scottish Pawn, straining to hear her voice.

  “You’re going the wrong way!”

  Myfanwy tried to twist around in the large bodyguard’s grip. They appeared to have come to the end of a hallway, and it was not one that led to any of the exits. She rolled her eyes and prepared to deliver some sort of withering observation to the bodyguard who’d led the way when he turned and called Li’l Pawn Alan forward.

  “You’re up, laddie,” he said firmly. Licking his lips nervously, the lanky Pawn placed both his palms flat against the steel-armored wall and tensed. There was a crackling sound, and when he took his hands away, a mottled gray streak stood out against the metal. The large bodyguard gestured for the young Pawn to move back, and then he wound up his fist and punched the flaw Alan had created, shattering a hole in the wall. Myfanwy’s bearer put her down gently and began to help his friend tear away the rest of the wall. The screech of ripping metal drowned the racket of the trailer’s journey backward, and everyone watched in awe as a rough but perfectly serviceable exit was created. Then the large bodyguard picked her up again and leaped through the opening.

  Myfanwy had forgotten how tall the trailer was—it was mounted on those big tires that could drive over a Volvo and had been jacked up on heavy metal legs. It felt as if they floated for a full five seconds before she was slammed against her bodyguard’s shoulder, flashing her undergarments at the gaping Checquy onlookers. The bodyguard slid her out of his arms and deposited her roughly on her feet. She took the opportunity to hike her trouser
s up before another security operative took her by the arm. Behind her, the large bodyguards were helping people out of the trailer, one guard simply picking each staff member up and tossing him down to his partner, who placed the person politely on the pavement. Ingrid and Alan had been the first to be passed down and were now being ushered away by some brisk-looking Pawns in camouflage.

  Myfanwy looked back. The trailer had been dragged much farther than she’d expected, almost to the steps of the police station, and was now being rocked back and forth. The din was horrendous, but what really caught her attention were the two flesh tentacles that had wrapped around it. Myfanwy shook off the guiding arms of the Pawn in camouflage and got down on her knees to peer under the trailer.

  “What did it get caught up on?” she shouted at the soldier, who was trying to figure out how best to lay hands on his commanding officer without getting court-martialed or becoming the victim of her infamous powers.

  “Some concrete bollards,” he said right in her ear. She nodded thoughtfully and became aware of a loud mechanical droning sound between the crashes. She looked up and saw Pawn Steele, clad in some sort of plastic armor, perched precariously on the roof of the trailer and hacking away at a tentacle with one of his infamous chain saws. As she watched in awe, he swept his arms up and brought down churning metal in a glorious motion that sent fluids spattering everywhere. The tentacle parted, and the banging of the trailer ceased immediately. Steele raised his head and gave a triumphant howl.

  “Brilliant,” said Myfanwy, but the word died on her lips. Instead of hanging limply like any right-thinking unnatural flesh-weapon tentacle would, this thing was shuddering. Before her horrified eyes, the wound blossomed and sprouted a mass of writhing tendrils that flailed about. Several of them whipped around Steele, slammed him down onto the roof, and flung his chain saw away. Myfanwy drew in breath to scream, but before she could make a sound, dozens of fingers writhed down to entangle her. As she was mummified, she saw one of her large bodyguards get snared, and then she was being whiplashed into the air and pulled toward the police station.

  Myfanwy’s skin burned, and she could feel the return of her headache as she was reeled in by the cube. Her breath was crushed out of her as the tendrils constricted. She tried to focus, to reach out with her powers and grab some control, but she could feel herself slipping away. In some quirk of happenstance, there was a gap between the tentacles, and it was situated over one of her eyes. The sky was rolling crazily in front of her, and then the wall of the police station was there with a gaping hole punched in it, and she was being pulled into a crevice that had opened in the cube. Heat and unimaginable pressure enveloped her, and then there was no more light.

  36

  Dear You,

  It is now, much to my chagrin, the holiday season. The time of year characterized by the highest suicide rate within the Checquy. We’ve already started to see the annual spikes in poltergeist incursions and chronological abductions—but those aren’t the things that usually push our operatives to end themselves. It’s the fact that we all suddenly remember who we are. And who we aren’t. I mean, sure, there are office parties, and gatherings of friends, and a few of us manage to build relationships with significant others—either inside or outside the Checquy. But when most of us walk down the street and see the normal people, we get a little down. The staff therapists get busy.

  In spite of my total lack of a personal life, I generally do pretty well at Christmastime. Which is to say, I ignore it as much as I can. Someone has to work over the holiday period, so I usually volunteer, and one of the Chevs does too (usually Gubbins, since he and his wife don’t have any kids). Together, we supervise the skeleton crews, drink some sherry via teleconference, and then I go home. Another year taken care of, with barely a taste of the depressing yuletide spirit.

  But there are two seasonal social gatherings that are simply unavoidable: the executive Christmas party and the Court’s Christmas party.

  I had already endured the executive party, to which all the station heads around the nation are invited. It’s always terribly awkward, with various people seeking to ingratiate themselves to the Court in an effort to advance their careers. As a result, I had spent most of the party trying to avoid people who wanted to tell me how marvelous they were, and why they should be promoted. With that delightful obligation fulfilled, there was still the Court party to attend.

  So two days before Christmas, I found myself knocking on the very lovely door of Mr. and Mrs. Conrad Grantchester’s very lovely house by the river. Snow had begun falling lightly, and I was glumly sniffing at the flowers I’d brought when the door was opened by a subdued-looking maid.

  “Please, come in,” she said.

  “Emily, are the guests arriving already?” came a call, and Mrs. Conrad Grantchester sailed into view, carrying Grantchester Junior—an adorable little blond child who looked like he should be toddling around naked with a bow and arrow and a set of fluffy little wings. “Myfanwy! Lovely to see you, do come in out of the snow.” Caroline Grantchester, thirty-nine years old, was wearing a cocktail dress the color of champagne, and she was beautiful, with dark hair, the bluest eyes in the world, and a figure that proved beyond all doubt that the baby was adopted. Well, that and the letterpress announcement we’d all gotten in the mail that the Grantchesters were adopting a baby.

  “Myfanwy, have you met little Henry?” she asked as the maid took my coat and flowers. “Henry, this is your auntie Miffy.” Henry regarded his newly acquired auntie Miffy with a moment of disconcerting focus, and then blew some bubbles. I smiled politely and allowed myself to be drawn into the sitting room. Grantchester had married himself a lovely lady whose family went back to the Conquest and had done their share of Conquering. Her social connections, combined with his (always unspecified, but obviously exceptionally important) role in the government, meant that they enjoyed a rich and active social life.

  “I love what you’re wearing,” she lied enthusiastically. Even I didn’t particularly like what I was wearing, but it had been in my closet for ages, and it had looked depressed on its hanger, as if it deserved a day out. Unfortunately, it now looked depressed to be on me.

  “Conrad tells me you’ve been working very hard,” continued Caroline, and looked to me for some sort of response.

  “Oh, well, you know,” I stumbled. “It’s got to be done.” The cover story given to spouses is that we work in the intelligence field, which implies a high level of discretion. So she knew I couldn’t really talk about my work, which left me little that I could talk about. I knew that I had three weeks of consciousness left at the most, and this party seemed a tremendous, if unavoidable, waste of my time. Fortunately, I was saved by a knock at the door. Unfortunately, this led to the depositing of little Henry in the horrified arms of his auntie Miffy.

  This was pretty much the youngest person I’d ever come in contact with, ever. There had been infants at the Estate, but we didn’t interact with them until they were five. This thing was a year old. It didn’t seem able to talk, and it regarded me with that same steady look as previously and then started oozing copiously from its nose and mouth. I tilted it away from my top and looked around helplessly.

  The knock at the door had turned out to be Chevalier Joshua Eckhart, his round and comfortable wife, Phillipa, and their four children. Two of the boys were twins in their midtwenties, and strapping lads they were, strapping enough to make me regret my clothes. And hair. Then there was a teenage daughter, who looked at me with a certain amount of contempt, and a twelve-year-old boy, who ignored me entirely. I hoped fervently that Phillipa would sweep over and liberate me from the baby-holding, but she just clucked politely when Mrs. Grantchester pointed out little Henry and dispatched one of the twins to bring her a champagne cocktail.

  “So, Myfanwy, she saddled you with the baby, did she?” Mrs. Eckhart observed. “I’m not surprised, given that she’s wearing a dress worth the gross domestic product of Fiji. You’ll
want to wipe at his face with the receiving blanket,” she said helpfully. “Frankly, I don’t know why they haven’t gotten a nanny.”

  “Actually, I think they have one,” I said. “I don’t know where she is.” I looked around hopefully.

  “I would have killed for a nanny,” Phillipa mused. “Or a Taser. The number of times the twins almost set the house on fire…”

  “Really?” I said in surprise, and I struggled for a comment. “They seem so, I don’t know, calm. And now that they’re adults, do, um—oh, thank God—Conrad, do you want to take little Henry?”

  “No.” He looked at me in disbelief and moved on.

  “Oh,” I said. Meanwhile, other members of the Court were arriving. I didn’t actually want to join them, but at least if I did maybe someone would take the child off my hands.

  “Myfanwy dear, Josh has never actually made it clear to me. Do you work together in the office?” Phillipa asked with genuine interest.

  “Oh, well, not exactly. We both head up sections,” I fumbled as the baby started making noise and fidgeting in my arms.

  “Really? You’re so young; how old are you?” Before I could answer, we were distracted by one of the twins bringing us both champagne cocktails. “Thank you, Richard—you remember Myfanwy, don’t you? She works with your father. Myfanwy, this is Richard.”

  “Hi,” he said sympathetically. “Do you want me to take the baby?”

  “Thanks,” I whispered. He took little Henry with an ease that surprised me until I realized that he had younger siblings and so was probably used to holding them.

  “I’m so impressed,” said Phillipa as Richard expertly dandled the baby. “Richard is still at university, and you’re so high up in the service at such a young age.”

  “Well, um, you know. I’m very good at management,” I said. “If I were a superhero, that would be my superpower. That, and nothing else,” I added hastily.